The Phoenix Bride
by DarkenedRogue
Summary: This story loosely follows the story in the Princess Bride, however, all the characters have been changed to x-men characters, the places are the same, but the story is changed.
1. One The Bride

I decided to do a story based on "The Princess Bride." It isn't the exact same, because they are mutants and so all the characters are changed, they have special powers, so on and so forth. So, it is a fanfiction of both The Princess Bride as well as of X-men Evolution. The first chapter is barely changed, but from here on out, it should be completely different. I got this idea when I read a story on here called "Anna Enchanted" loosely based off of "Ella Enchanted" and it was sooo amazing, I wish I was able to finish it, but it vanished. Anyway, let me know what you think. Also, I am hoping to upload a new chapter everyday.

One

The Bride

The year that Jean was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French Scullery maid named Jennifer Walters. Jennifer worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Jennifer and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.

Chocolate.

Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors.

Jennifer never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Jennifer, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. Although, later in life she needed a blood transplant, which she ended up getting from her jolly green giant cousin and became one herself, but the extra strength ever dampened her spirits. She even got fit again, although now being 7 foot, most people thought her too tall. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding, next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn't have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren't called "ulcers." The medical profession at that time called them "stomach pains" and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess's grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except this was before Voltaire.)

The year Jean turned ten, the most beautiful woman lived in Bengal, the daughter of a successful tea merchant. This girl's name was Amara Aquilla, and her skin was of a dusky perfection unseen in India for eighty years. (There have only been eleven perfect complexions in all of India since accurate accounting began.) Amara was nineteen the year the pox plague hit Bengal. The girl survived, even if her skin did not. She wasn't obsessed with beauty, however,

When Jean was fifteen, Tabitha Smith, of Sussex on the Thames, was easily the most beautiful creature. Tabitha was twenty, and so far did she outdistance the world that it seemed certain she would be the most beautiful for many, many years. But then one day, one of her suitors (she had 104 of them) exclaimed that without question Tabitha must be the most ideal item yet spawned. Tabitha, flattered, began to ponder the truth of the statement. That night, alone in her room, she examined herself pore by pore in her mirror. (This was after mirrors.) It took her until close to dawn to finish her inspection, but by that time it was clear to her that the young man had been quite correct in his assessment: she was, through no real faults of her own, perfect.

As she strolled through the family rose gardens watching the sun rise, she felt happier than she had ever been. "Not only am I perfect," she said to herself, "I am probably the first perfect person in the whole long history of the universe. Not a part of me could stand improving, how lucky I am to be perfect and rich and sought after and sensitive and young and..."

Young?

The mist was rising around her as Tabitha began to think. Well, of course I'll always be sensitive, she thought, and I'll always be rich, but I don't quite see how I'm going to manage to always be young. And when I'm not young, how am I going to stay perfect? And if I'm not perfect, well, what else is there? What indeed? Tabitha furrowed her brow in desperate thought. It was the first time in her life her brow had ever had to furrow, and Tabitha gasped when she realized what she had done, horrified that she had somehow damaged it, perhaps permanently. She rushed back to her mirror and spent the morning, and although she managed to convince herself that she was still quite as perfect as ever, there was no question that she was not quite as happy as she had been. She had begun to fret.

The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight; the first wrinkles within a month, and before the year was out, creases abounded. She married soon thereafter, the selfsame man who accused her of sublimity, and gave him merry hell for many years. She had turned bitter, and used her ability of creating bombs to create mayhem for the rest of her days.

Jean, of course, at fifteen, knew none of this. And if she had, would have found it totally unfathomable. How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not. What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful. Or the sixth. (Jean at this time was nowhere near that high, being barely in the top twenty, and that primarily on potential, certainly not on any particular care she took of herself. She hated to wash her face, she loathed the area behind her ears, she was sick of combing her hair and did so as little as possible.) What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.

The horse's name was "Spyke" (Jean was never long on imagination) and it came when she called it, went where she steered it, did what she told it. The farm boy did what she told him too. Actually, he was more a young man now, but he had been a farm boy when, orphaned, he had come to work for her father, and Jean referred to him that way still. "Farm boy, fetch me this"; "Get me that, Farm boy – quickly, lazy thing, trot now or I'll tell Father."

"As you wish."

That was all he ever answered. "As you wish." Fetch that, Farm Boy. "As you wish." Dry this, Farm Boy. "As you wish." He lived in a hovel out near the animals and, according to Jean's mother, he kept it clean. He even read when he had candles.

"I'll leave the lad an acre in my will," Jean's father was fond of saying. (They had acres then.)

"You'll spoil him," Jean's mother always answered.

"He's slaved for many years; hard work should be rewarded." Then, rather than continue the argument (they had arguments then too), they would both turn on their daughter.

"You didn't bathe," her father said.

"I did, I did" from Jean.

"Not with water," her father continued. "You reek like a stallion."

"I've been riding all day," Jean explained.

"You must bathe, Jean," her mother joined in. "The boys don't like their girls to smell of stables."

"Oh, the boys!" Jean fairly exploded. Things flying from the table. "I do not care about 'the boys'. Spyke loves me and that is quite sufficient, thank you."

Her father reprimanded her. A lot of people would have found it odd that she could move things with her mind or read people's thoughts. So, her father told her to keep them hidden. No one was to know.

She said that speech loud, and she said it often.

But, like it or not, things were beginning to happen.

Shortly before her sixteenth birthday, Jean realized that it had now been more than a month since any girl in the village had spoken to her. She had never much been close to girls, so the change was nothing sharp, but at least before there were head nods exchanged when she rode through the village or along the cart tracks. But now, for no reason, there was nothing. A quick glance away as she approached, that was all. Jean cornered Taryn one morning at the blacksmith's and asked about the silence."I should think, after what you've done, you'd have the courtesy not to pretend to ask" came from Taryn. "And what have I done?" "What? What? … You've stolen them." With that, Taryn fled, but Jean understood; she knew who "them" was.

The boys.

The village boys.

The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys.

How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway? What good were they? All they did was pester and vex and annoy. "Can I brush your horse, Jean?" "Thank you, but the farm boy does that." "Can I go riding with you, Jean?" "Thank you, but I really do enjoy myself alone." "You think you're too god for anybody, don't you, Jean?" "No; no I don't. I just like riding by myself, that's all."

But throughout her sixteenth year, even this kind of talk gave way to stammering and flushing and, at the very best, questions about the weather. "Do you think it's going to rain, Jean?" "I don't think so; the sky is blue." "Well, it might rain." "Yes, I suppose it might." "You think you're too good for anybody, don't you, Jean?" "No, I just don't think it's going to rain, that's all."

At night, more often that not, they would congregate in the dark beyond her window and laugh about her. She ignored them. Usually the laughter would give way to insult. She paid them no mind. If they grew too damaging, the farm boy handled things, emerging silently from his hovel, thrashing a few of them, sending them flying, with small bursts from the beams hidden within his eyes. She never failed to thank him when he did this. "As you wish." was all he ever answered.

When she was almost seventeen, a man in a carriage came to town and watched her as she rode for provisions. He was still there on her return, peering out. She paid him no mind and, indeed by himself he was not important. But he marked a turning point. Other men had gone out of their way to catch sight of her; other men had even ridden twenty miles for the privilege, as this man had. The importance here is that this was the first rich man who had bothered to do so, the first noble. And it was this man, whose name is lost to antiquity, who mentioned Jean to Gambit.

The Land of Florin was set between where Sweden and Germany would eventually settle. (This was before Europe.) In theory, it was ruled by King Lensherr and his second wife, the Queen. But in fact, the King was barely hanging on, could only rarely tell day from night, and basically spent his time in muttering. He was very old, every organ in his body had long since betrayed him, and most of his important decisions regarding Florin had a certain arbitrary quality that bothered many of the leading citizens.

Prince Pietro actually ran things. If there had been a Europe, he would have been the most powerful man in it. Even as it was, nobody within a thousand miles wanted to mess with him.

Gambit was Pietro's only confidant. His real name was Remy Lebeau, but no one needed to use it. He had a saying, that only friends use his name and that he didn't have any friends. They had met at one of Shadow Cat's parties.

Shadow Cat was considerably younger than Gambit. All her clothes came from Paris (this was after Paris) and she had superb taste. (This was after taste too, but only just. And since it was such a new thing, and since Shadow Cat was the only lady in all Florin to possess it, is it any wonder why she was the leading hostess of the land?) Eventually, her passion for fabric and face paint caused her to settle permanently in Paris, where she ran the only salon of international consequence.

For now, she busied herself with simply sleeping on silk, eating on gold and being the single most feared and admired woman in Florinese history. If she had figure faults, her clothes concealed them; if her face was less than divine, it was hard to tell once she got done applying substances. (This was before glamour, but if it hadn't been for ladies like Shadow Cat, there would never have been a need for its invention.)

"QUICK- QUICK – COME - " Jean's father stood in his farmhouse, staring out the window. "Why?" This from the mother. She gave away nothing when it came to obedience.

The father made a quick finger point. "Look - "

"You look; you know how." Jean's parents did not have exactly what you might call a happy marriage. All they ever dreamed of was leaving each other.

Jean's father shrugged and went back to the window. "Ahhhh."

Jean's mother glanced up briefly from her cooking.

"Such riches," Jean's father said. "Glorious."

Jean's mother hesitated, then put her stew spoon down. (This was after stew, but so it everything. When the first man first clambered from the slime and made his first home on land, what he had for supper that first night was stew.)

"The heart swells at the magnificence," Jean's father muttered very loudly.

"What exactly is it, dumpling?" Jean's mother wanted to know.

"You know; you know how" was all he replied. (This was their thirty-third spat of the day - this was long after spats – and he was behind, thirty to twenty, but he had made up a lot of distance since lunch, when he was 17 to two against him.)

"Donkey," the mother said, and came over to the window. A moment later she was going "Ahhh" right along with him.

They stood there, the two of them, tiny and awed.

From setting the dinner table, Buttercup watched them.

"They must be going to meet Prince Pietro someplace," Jean's mother said.

The father nodded. "Hunting. That's what the Prince does."

"How lucky we are to have seen them pass by," Jean's mother said, and she took her husband's hand.

The old man nodded. "Now I can die."

She glanced at him. "Don't." Her tone was surprisingly tender, and probably she sensed how important he really was to her, because when he did die, two years further on, she went right after, and most of the people who knew her well agreed it was the sudden lack of opposition that undid her.

Jean came close and stood behind them, staring over them, and soon she was gasping too, because Gambit and Shadow Cat and all their pages and soldiers and servants and courtiers and champions and carriages were passing by the cart track at the front of the farm.

The three stood in silence as the procession moved forward. Jean's father was a tiny mutt of a man who had always dreamed of living like Gambit. He had once been two miles from where Gambit and Pietro had been hunting, and until this moment that had been the high point of his life. He was a terrible farmer, and not much of a husband either. There wasn't really much in this world he excelled at, and he could never quite figure out how he happened to sire his daughter, but he knew, deep down, that it must have been some kind of wonderful mistake, the nature of which he had no intention of investigating.

Jean's father was a gnarled shrimp of a woman, thorny and worrying, who had always dreamed of somehow just once being popular, like Shadow Cat was said to be. She was a terrible cook, and even more limited housekeeper. How Jean slid from her womb was, of course, beyond her. But she had been there when it happened; that was enough for her.

Jean herself, standing half a head over her parents, still holding the dinner dishes, still smelling of Spyke, only wished that the great procession wasn't quite so far away, so she could see if Shadow Cat's clothes really were all that lovely.

As if in answer to her request, the procession turned and began entering the farm.

"Here?" Jean's father managed. "My God, why?"

Jean's mother whirled on him. "Did you forget to pay you taxes?" (This was after taxes. But everything is after taxes. Taxes were here even before stew.)

"Even if I did, they wouldn't need all that to collect them," and he gestured toward the front of his farm, where now Gambit and Shadow Cat and all their pages and soldiers and servants and courtiers and champions and carriages were coming closer and closer. "What could they want to ask me about?" he said.

"Go see, go see," Jean's mother told him.

"You go. Please."

"No. You. Please."

"We'll both go."

They both went. Trembling...

"Cows," Gambit said, when they reached his golden carriage. "I would like to talk about your cows." He spoke from inside, his dark face darkened by shadow. He had an accent, but he seemed to be trying to cover it. French, maybe? They weren't sure.

"My cows?" Jean's father said.

"Yes. You see, I'm thinking of starting a little dairy of my own, and since your cows are known throughout the land as being Florin's finest, I thought I might pry your secrets from you."

"My cows," Jean's father managed to repeat, hoping he was not going mad. Because the truth was, and he knew it well, he had terrible cows. For years, nothing but complaints from the people in the village. If anyone else had had milk to sell, he would have been out of business in a minute. Now granted, things had improved since the farm boy had come to slave for him – no question, the farm boy had certain skills, and the complaints were quite nonexistent now – but that didn't make his the finest cows in Florin. Still, you didn't argue with Gambit. Jean's father turned to his wife. "What would you say my secret is, my dear?" he asked.

"Oh, there are so many," she said – she was no dummy, not when it came to the quality of their livestock.

"You two are childless, are you?" Gambit asked then.

"No, sir," the mother answered.

"Then let me see her," Gambit went on - "perhaps she will be quicker with her answers than her parents."

"Jean," the father called, turning. "Come out, please."

"How did you know we had a daughter?" Jean's mother wondered.

"A guess. I assumed it had to be one of the other. Some days I'm luckier than - " He simply stopped talking then.

Because Jean moved into view, hurrying from the house to her parents.

Gambit left the carriage. Gracefully, he moved to the ground and stood very still. He was tall, but he was wearing dark glasses, which kept his eyes hidden. He seemed well toned, he must have taken care of himself. He had brown that was unstyled, but looked pretty amazing as if someone had fixed it. He wore gloves with several of the fingers missing and held something that appeared to be a cane, although to long. Wait, no, a staff? It glinted in the sun.

"Curtsy, dear," Jean's mother whispered. Jean did her best.

And Gambit could not stop looking at her.

Understand now, she was barely rated in the top twenty; her hair was uncombed, unclean; her age was just seventeen, so there was still, in occasional places, the remains of baby fat. Nothing was really there but potential.

But Gambit still could not rip his eyes away.

"Gambit would like to know the secrets behind our cows' greatness, is that not correct, sir?" Jean's father said.

Gambit only nodded, staring.

Even Jean's mother noted a certain tension in the air.

"Ask the farm boy; he tends them," Jean said.

"And is that the farm boy?" came a new voice from inside the carriage. Then Shadow Cat's face was framed in the carriage doorway.

Her lips were painted a perfect pink; her blue eyes lined in black. All the colors of the world were muted in her gown. Jean wanted to shield her eyes from the brilliance.

Jean's father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the corner of the house. "It is."

"Bring him to me."

"He is not dressed properly for such an occasion," Jean's mother said.

"I have seen bare chests before," Shadow cat replied. Then she called out: "You!" and pointed at the farm boy. "Come here." Her fingers snapped on "here."

The farm boy did as he was told.

And when he was close, Shadow cat left the carriage.

When he was a few paces behind Jean, he stopped, head properly bowed. He was ashamed of his attire, worn boots and torn blue jeans (blue jeans were invented considerably before most people suppose), and his hands were tight together in almost a gesture of supplication.

"Have you a name, farm boy?"

"Scott Summers, Shadow Cat."

"Well, Scott, perhaps you can help us with our problem. And call me Kitty." She crossed to him. The fabric of her gown grazed his skin. "We are all of us here passionately interested in the subject of cows. We are practically reaching the point of frenzy, such is our curiosity. Why, do you suppose, Scott, that the cows of this particular farm are the finest in all Florin? What do you do to them?"

"I just feed them, Kitty." He added on the name as an afterthought, almost nervously.

"Well then, there it is, the mystery is solved, the secret; we can all rest. Clearly, the magic is in Scott's feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Scott?"

"Feed the cows for you, Kitty?"

"Bright lad."

"When?"

"Now will be soon enough," and she held out her arm to him. "Lead me, Scott."

Scott had no choice but to take her arm. Gently. "It's behind the house, madam; it's terrible muddy back there. Your gown will be ruined."

"I wear them only once, Scott, and I burn to see you in action."

So off they went to the cowshed.

Throughout all this, Gambit kept watching Jean.

"I'll help you," Jean called after Scott.

"Perhaps I'd best see just how he does it," Gambit decided.

"Strange things are happening," Jean's parents said, and off they went too, bringing up the rear of the cow-feeding trip, watching Gambit, who was watching their daughter, who was watching Shadow Cat.

Who was watching Scott.

"I couldn't see what he did that was so special," Jean's father said. "He just fed them." This was after dinner now, and the family was alone again.

"They must like him personally. I had a cat once that only bloomed when I fed him. Maybe it's the same kind of thing." Jean's mother scraped the stew leavings into a bowl. "Here," she said to her daughter. "Scott's waiting by the back door; take him his dinner."

Jean carried the bowl, opened the back door.

"Take it," she said.

He nodded, accepted, started off to his tree stump to eat.

"I didn't excuse you, Farm Boy," Jean began. He stopped, turned back to her. "I don't like what you're doing with Spyke. What you're not doing with Spyke is more to the point. I want him cleaned. Tonight. I want his hoofs varnished. Tonight. I want his tail plaited and his ears massaged. This very evening. I want his stables spotless. Now. I want him glistening, and if it takes you all night, it takes you all night."

"As you wish."

She slammed the door and let him eat in darkness.

"I thought Spyke had been looking very well, actually," her father said.

Jean said nothing.

"You yourself said so yesterday," her mother reminded her.

"I must be overtired," Jean managed. "The excitement and all."

"Rest, then," her mother cautioned. "Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed." Thirty-four to twenty-two and pulling away.

Jean went to her room. She lay on her bed. She closed her eyes.

And Shadow Cat was staring at Scott.

Jean got up from bed. She took off her clothes. She washed a little. She got into her nightgown. She slipped between the sheets, snuggled down, closed her eyes.

Shadow Cat was still staring at Scott!

Jean threw back the sheets, opened her door. She went to the sink by the stove and poured herself a cup of water. She drank it down. She poured another cup and rolled its coolness across her forehead. The feverish feeling was still there.

How feverish? She felt fine. She was seventeen, and not even a cavity. She dumped the water firmly into the sink, turned, marched back to her room, shut the door tight, went back to bed. She closed her eyes.

Shadow Cat would not stop staring at Scott!

Why? Why in the world would the woman in all the history of Florin who was in all ways perfect be interested in the farm boy? Jean rolled around in bed. And there simply was no other way of explaining that look – she was interested. Jean shut her eyes tight and studied the memory of Shadow Cat. Clearly, something about the farm boy interested her. Facts were facts. But what? You couldn't see his eyes because he wore ruby quartz glasses, that glittered in the sunlight, though the eyes, just visible beyond them seemed to be holding back a storm. The red stormed, she watched from her window that scared off the boys. But who cared about eyes? And he had brown hair that was somehow warm and inviting, if you liked that sort of thing. And he was broad enough in the shoulders, but not all that much broader than Gambit's. And certainly he was muscular, but anybody would be muscular who slaved all day. And his skin was perfect and tan, but that came again from slaving; in the sun all day, who wouldn't be tan? And he was about the same height as Gambit, but the farm boy was younger.

Jean sat up in bed. It must be his teeth. The farm boy did have good teeth, give credit where credit is due. White and perfect, particularly set against the sun-tanned face.

Could it have been anything else? Jean concentrated. The girls in the village followed the farm boy around a lot, whenever he was making deliveries, but they were idiots, they followed anything. And he always ignored them, because if he'd ever opened his mouth, they would have realized that was all he had, just good teeth; he was, after all, exceptionally stupid.

It was really very strange that a woman as beautiful and slender and willowy and graceful, a creature as perfectly packaged, as supremely dressed as Shadow Cat should be hung up on teeth that way. Jean shrugged. People were surprisingly complicated. But now she had it all diagnosed, deduced, clear. She closed her eyes and snuggled down and got all nice and comfortable, and people don't look at other people the way Shadow Cat looked at the farm boy because of their teeth.

"Oh," Jean gasped. "Oh, oh dear."

Now the farm boy was staring back at Shadow Cat. He was feeding the cows and his muscles were rippling the way they always did under his tanned skin and Jean was standing their watching as the farm boy looked, for the first time, deep into Shadow Cat's eyes.

Jean jumped out of bed and began to pace her room. How could he? Oh, it was all right if he looked at her, but he wasn't looking at her, he was _looking at her._

"She's short," Jean muttered, starting to storm a bit now. Shadow Cat would always need super high heels and that was fact. And her dress looked ridiculous out in the cowshed and that was fact too.

Jean fell onto her bed and clutched her pillow across her breasts. The dress was ridiculous before it ever got to the cowshed. Shadow Cat looked rotten the minute she left the carriage, with her too big painted mouth and her little piggy eyes and her powdered skin and... and... and...

Flailing and thrashing, Jean wept and tossed and paced and wept some more, and there have been three great cases of jealousy since David of Galilee was first afflicted with the emotion when he could no longer stand that his neighbor Saul's cactus outshone his own. (Originally, jealousy pertained solely to plants, other people's cactus or ginkgoes, or, later, when there was grass, grass, which is why, even to this day, we say that someone is green with jealousy.) Jean's case rated a close fourth on the all-time list.

It was a very long and very green night.

She was outside his hovel before dawn. Inside, she could hear him already awake. She knocked. He appeared, stood in the doorway. Behind him she could see a tiny candle, open books. He waited. She looked at him. Then she looked away.

He was too beautiful.

"I love you," Jean said. "I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that, I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know? You probably didn't because they are covered, but they are. How many minutes ago was I? Twenty? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn't matter." Jean still could not look at him. The sun was rising behind her now; she could feel the heat on her back, and it gave her courage. "I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now that when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything bu you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. I know I cannot compete with Shadow Cat in skills or wisdom or appeal, and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her. But remember, please, that she lives far away and has other interests, while I am closer to your age and for me there is only you. Dearest Scott – I've never called you that before, have I? - Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott, - darling Scott, adored Scott, sweet perfect Scott, whisper that I have a chance to win your love." And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done: she looked right into his eyes.

He closed the door in her face.

Without a word.

Without a word.

Jean ran. She whirled and burst away and the tears came bitterly; she could not see, she stumbled, she slammed into a tree trunk, fell, rose, ran on; her shoulder throbbed from where the tree trunk hit her, and the pain was strong, but not enough to ease her shattered heart. Back to her room she fled, back to her pillow. Safe behind the locked door, she drenched the world with tears.

Not even one word. He hadn't had the decency for that. "Sorry," he could have said. Would it have ruined him to say "sorry"? "Too late," he could have said.

Why couldn't he at least have said something?

Jean thought very hard about that for a moment. And suddenly she had the answer: he didn't talk because the minute he opened his mouth, that was it. Sure he was handsome, but dumb? The minute he had exercised his tongue, it would have all been over.

"Duhhhhhhh."

That's what he would have said. That was the kind of thing Scott came out with when he was feeling really sharp. "Duhhhhhhh, tanks, Jean."

Jean dried her tears and began to smile. She took a deep breath, heaved a sigh. It was all part of growing up. You got these little quick passions, you blinked, and they were gone. You forgave faults, found perfection, fell madly; then the next day the sun came up and it was over. Chalk it up to experience, old girl, and get on with the morning. Jean stood, made her bed, changed her clothes, combed her hair, smiled, and burst out again in a fit of weeping. Because there was a limit to just how much you could lie to yourself.

Scott wasn't stupid.

Oh, she could pretend he was. She could laugh about his difficulties with the language. She could chide herself for her silly infatuation with a dullard. The truth was simply this: he had a head on his shoulders. With a brain inside every bit as good as his teeth. There was a reason he hadn't spoken and it had nothing to do with gray cells working. He hadn't spoken because, really, there was nothing for him to say.

He didn't love her back and that was that.

The tears that kept Jean company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn't good enough. She was seventeen, and every male she'd ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it mattered, she wasn't good enough. All she knew really was riding, and how was that to interest a man when that man had been looked at by Shadow Cat?

It was dusk when she heard footsteps outside her door. Then a knock. Jean dried her eyes. Another knock "Whoever is that?" Jean yawned finally.

"Scott."

Jean lounged across the bed."Scott?" she said. "Do I know any Sco- Oh, Farm Boy, it's you, how droll!" She went to her door, unlocked it, and said, in her fanciest tone, "I'm ever so glad you stopped by, I've been feeling just ever so slummy about the little joke I played on you this morning. Of course you knew I wasn't for a moment serious, or at least I thought you knew, but then, just when you started closing the door I thought for one dreary instant that perhaps I'd done my little jest a bit too convincingly and, poor dear thing, you might have thought I meant what I said when of course we both know the total impossibility of that ever happening."

"I've come to say good-by."

Jean's heart bucked, but she held to fancy. "You're going to sleep, you mean, and you've come to say good night? How thoughtful of you, Farm Boy, showing me that you forgive me for my little morning's tease; I certainly appreciate your thoughtfulness and - "

He cut her off. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" The floor began to ripple. She held to the door frame. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Because of what I said this morning?"

"Yes."

"I frightened you away, didn't I? I could kill my tongue." She shook her head and shook her head. "Well, it's done; you've made your decision. Just remember this: I won't take you back when she's done with you, I don't care if you beg."

He just looked at her.

Jean hurried on. "Just because you're beautiful and perfect, it's made you conceited. You think people can't get tired of you, well, you're wrong, they can, and she will, besides you're too poor."

"I'm going to America. To seek my fortune." (This was just after America but long after fortunes.) "A ship sails soon from London. There is great opportunity in America. I'm going to take advantage of it. I've been training myself. In my hovel. I've taught myself not to need sleep. A few hours only. I'll take a ten-hour-a-day job and then I'll take another ten-hour-a-day job and I'll save every penny from both except when I need to eat to keep strong, and when I have enough I'll buy a farm and build a house and make a bed big enough for two."

"You're just crazy if you think she's going to be happy in some run-down farmhouse in America. Not with what she spends on clothes."

"Stop talking about Shadow Cat! As a special favor. Before you dive me maaaaaaaad."

Jean looked at him.

"Don't you understand anything that's going on?"

Jean shook her head.

Scott shook his too. "You never have been the brightest, I guess."

"Do you love me, Scott? Is that it?"

He couldn't believe it. "Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. If your love were - "

"I don't understand that first one yet," Jean interrupted. She was starting to get very excited now. "Let me get this straight. Are you saying my love is the size of a grain of sand and yours is this other thing? Images just confuse me so – is this universal business of yours bigger than my sand? Help me, Scott. I have the feeling we're on the verge of something just terribly important."

"I have stayed these years in my hovel because of you. I have taught myself languages because of you. I have made my body strong because I thought you might be pleased by a strong body. I have lived my life with only the prayer that some sudden dawn you might glance in my direction. I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careening against my rib cage. I have not known a night when your visage did not accompany me to sleep. There has not been a morning when you did not flutter behind my waking eyelids... Is any of this getting through to you, Jean, or do you want me to go on for a while?"

"Never stop."

"There has not been - "

"If you are teasing me, Scott, I'm just going to kill you."

"How can you even dream I might be teasing?"

"Well, you haven't once said you loved me."

"That's all you need? Easy. I love you. Okay? Want it louder? I love you! Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I."

"You are teasing now; aren't you?"

"A little maybe; I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Farm Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. 'I love you' was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard."

"I hear you now, and I promise you this. I will never love anyone else. Only Scott. Until I die."

He nodded, took a step away. "I'll send for you soon. Believe me."

"Would my Scott ever lie?"

He took another step. "I'm late. I must go. I hate it but I must. The ship sails soon and London is far."

"I understand."

He reached out with his right hand.

Jean found it very hard to breathe.

"Good-by."

She managed to raise her right hand to his. They shook.

"Good-by," he said again.

She made a little nod.

He took a third step, not turning.

She watched him.

He turned.

And the words ripped out of her: "Without one kiss?"

They fell into each other's arms.

There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C., when Saul and Delilah Korn's inadvertent discovery swept across Western civilization. (Before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

Well, this one left them all behind.

The first morning after Scott's departure, Jean thought she was entitled to do nothing more than sit around moping and feeling sorry for herself. After all, the love her of life had fled, life had no meaning, how could you face the future, et cetera, et cetera.

But after about two seconds of that she realized that Scott was out in the world now, getting nearer and nearer to London, and what if a beautiful city girl caught his fancy while she was just back here moldering? Or worse, what if he got to America and worked his jobs and built his farm and made their bed and sent for her and when she got there he would look at her and say, "I'm sending you back, the moping has destroyed your eyes, the self-pity has taken your skin; you're a slobby-looking creature, I'm marrying and Indian girl who lives in a teepee nearby and is always in the peak of condition."

Jean ran to her bedroom mirror. "Oh, Scott," she said, "I must never disappoint you," and she hurried downstairs to where her parents were squabbling. (Sixteen to thirteen, and not past breakfast yet.) "I need your advice," she interrupted. "What can I do to improve my personal appearance?"

"Start by bathing," her father said.

"And do something with your hair while you're at it," her mother said.

"Unearth the territory behind your ears."

"Neglect not your knees."

"That will do nicely for starters," Jean said. She shook her head. "Gracious, but it isn't easy being tidy." Undaunted, she set to work.

Every morning she awake, if possible by dawn, and got the farm chores finished immediately. There was much to be done now, with Scott gone, and more than that, ever since Gambit had visited, everyone in the area had increased his milk order. So there was no time for self-improvement until well into the afternoon.

But then she really set to work. First a good cold bath. Then, while her hair was drying, she would slave after fixing her figure faults (one of her elbows was just too bony, the opposite wrist not bony enough.) And exercise what remained of her baby fat (little left now; she was nearly eighteen). And brush and brush her hair.

Her hair was the color of autumn, and it had never been cut, so a thousand strokes took time, but she didn't mind, because Scott had never seen it clean like this and wouldn't he be surprised when she stepped off the boat in America. Her skin was the color of wintry cream,and she scrubbed every inch well past glistening, and that wasn't much fun really, but wouldn't Scott be pleased with how clean she was as she stepped off the boat in America.

And very quickly now, her potential began to be realized. From twentieth, she jumped within two weeks to fifteenth, an unheard of change in such a time. But three weeks after that she was already ninth and moving. The competition was tremendous now, but the day after she was ninth a three-page letter arrived from Scott in London and just reading it over put her up to eighth. That was really what was doing it for her more than anything – her love for Scott would not stop growing, and people were dazzled when she delivered milk in the morning. Some people were only able to gape at her, but many talked and those that did found her warmer and gentler than she had ever been before. Even the village girls would nod and smile now, and some of them would ask after Scott, which was a mistake unless you happened to have a lot of spare time, because when someone asked Jean how Scott was – well, she told them. He was supreme as usual; he was spectacular; he was singularly fabulous. Oh, she could go on for hours. Sometimes it got a little tough for the listeners to maintain strict attention, but they did their best, since Jean loved him so completely.

Which was why Scott's death hit her the way it did.

He had written to her just before he sailed for America. The Queen's Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It is raining today and I love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Spyke and I love you. Like that.)

Then there were no letters, but that was natural; he was at sea. Then she heard. She came home from delivering the milk and her parents were wooden. "Off the Carolina coast," her father whispered.

Her mother whispered, "Without warning. At night."

"What?" from Jean.

"Pirates," said her father.

Jean thought she'd better sit down.

Quiet in the room.

"He's been taken prisoner then?" Jean managed.

Her mother made a "no."

"It was Cyclops," her father said. "The Dread Pirate Cyclops."

"Oh," Jean said. "The one who never leaves survivors."

"Yes," her father said.

Quiet in the room.

Suddenly Jean was talking very fast: "Was he stabbed? ...Did he drown?...Did they cut his throat asleep? ...Did they way him, do you suppose? ...Perhaps they whipped him dead..." She stood up then."I'm getting silly, forgive me." She shook her head. "As if the way they got him mattered. Excuse me, please." With that she hurried to her room.

She stayed there many days. At first, her parents tried to lure her, but she would not have it. They took to leaving food outside her room, and she took bits and shreds, enough to stay alive. There was never noise inside, no wailing, no bitter sounds.

And when she at last came out, her eyes were dry. Her parents stared up from their silent breakfast at her. They both started to rise but she put a hand out, stopped them. "I can care for myself, please," and she set about getting some food. They watched her closely.

In point of fact, she had never looked so well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.

She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She didn't seem to care.

"You're all right?" her mother asked.

Jean sipped her cocoa. "Fine," she said.

"You're sure?" her father wondered.

"Yes," Jean replied. There was a very long pause. "But I must never love again."

She never did.


	2. Two The Groom

Two

The Groom

Prince Pietro was surprisingly thin with shockingly white hair, especially for his young age. He was muscley, but not in the way that was intimidating, they were just toned. He obviously exercised, but seemed to focus on a little of everything. He wasn't as tall as Gambit, or Scott, probably about the same height as Jean. He enjoyed hunting. Some would say it was his passion, something he cared about more than anything else. Although, it wasn't exactly hunting that he loved. He loved the chase.

He made it a practice never to let a day go by without killing something. It didn't much matter what. When he first grew dedicated, he killed only big things: elephants or pythons. But then,as his skills increased, he began to enjoy the suffering of little beasts too. He could happily spend an afternoon tracking a flying squirrel across forests or a rainbow trout down rivers. Once he was determined, once he had focused on an object, the Prince was relentless. He never tired, never wavered, neither ate nor slept. It was death chess and he was international grand master. I should explain about the chase thing I said earlier. He was special, like Jean was, like Scott was. When he hunted, he didn't use a horse, he ran. Nothing could outrun him. Nothing could defeat him. When you moved as fast as he does, you need things to occupy your time. Killing was apparently his.

In the beginning, he traversed the world for opposition. But travel consumed time, not counting the times on ships, the time didn't matter much, but the time away from Florin was worrying. There always had to be a male heir to the throne, and as long as his father was alive, there was no problem. He had a twin sister, but as she couldn't take the crown, she wasn't thought of as that important and mainly kept out of a lot of things. But someday his father would die and then the Prince would be the king and he would have to select a queen to supply an heir for the day of his own death.

So to avoid the problem of absence, Prince Pietro, built the Zoo of Death. He designed it himself with Gambit's help, and he sent his hirelings across the world to stock it for him. It was kept brimming with things that he could hunt, and it really wasn't like any other animal sanctuary anywhere. In the first place, there were never any visitors. Only the keeper, to make sure the beasts were properly fed, and that there was never any sickness or weakness inside.

The other thing about the Zoo was that it was underground. The Prince picked the spot himself, in the quietest, remotest corner of the castle grounds. And he decreed there were to be five levels, all with the proper needs for his individual enemies. On the first level, he put enemies of speed: wild dogs, cheetahs, hummingbirds. Although, they were no real match for him. On the second level belonged the enemies of strength: Anacondas and rhinos and crocodiles of over twenty feet. Although, without the ability to catch them, they were no real problem either. The third level was for poisoners: spitting cobras, jumping spiders, death bats galore. The fourth level was the kingdom of the most dangerous, the enemies of fear: the shrieking tarantula (the only spider capable of sound), the blood eagle (the only bird that thrived on human flesh), plus, in its own black pool, the sucking squid. Even the keeper shivered during feeding time on the fourth level. Although, he was the most afraid of the two people kept in there. They were called Sabertooth and Wolverine. Pietro had never attempted to kill them, they were always just attacking each other, destroying everything around them, until they were two tired to keep fighting. They both healed so fast he doubted he could kill them anyway. Although, he still didn't see them as a challenge. They were more of a decoration for his Zoo.

The fifth level was empty.

The Prince constructed it in the hopes of someday finding something worthy, something as dangerous and fierce and powerful as he was.

Unlikely. Still, he was an eternal optimist, so he kept the great cage of the fifth level always in readiness.

And there was really more than enough that was lethal on the other four levels to keep a man happy. The Prince would sometimes choose his prey by luck – he had a great wheel with a spinner and on the outside of the wheel was a picture of every animal in the Zoo and he would twirl the spinner at breakfast, and wherever it stopped, the keeper would ready that breed. Sometimes he would choose by mood: "I feel quick today; fetch me a cheetah" or"I feel strong today, release a rhino." And whatever he requested, of course, was done.

He was ringing down the curtain on an orangutan when the business of the King's health made its ultimate intrusion. It was midafternoon, and the Prince had been grappling with the giant beast since morning, and finally, after all these hours, the hairy thing was weakening. Again and again, the monkey tried to bite, a sure sign of failure of strength in the arms. The Prince dodged the attempted bites with ease, and the ape was heaving at the chest now, desperate for air. The Prince, spotting the weakness began circling it. He was a blur and the simian could not keep up. He was dizzy, he was tired, he was spinning. She when the Prince sprung forward with all the strength from he could must, both of hisfeet landing on the simian's spine. (This was all taking place in the ape pit, where the Prince had his pleasure with many simians.) From up above now, Gambit's voice interrupted. " There is news," Gambit said.

From the battle, the Prince replied, "Cannot it wait?"

"For how long?" asked Gambit.

C

R

A

C

K

The Orangutan fell like a rag doll. "Now, what is all this," the Prince replied, stepping past the dead beast, mounting the ladder out of the pit.

"Your father has had his annual physical," Gambit said. "I have the report."

"And?"

"Your father is dying."

"Drat!" said the Prince. "That means I shall have to get married."


End file.
